


A Stolen Moment

by wildcard_47



Series: Can't Deny My Love [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: 5 Times, Also Just Hurt & Sadness, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, denial is a river in egypt, is this a kissing fic?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:13:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15818655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Sequel to "A Startling Sensation." Four more times James and Francis were alone together, and one time they weren't.





	1. Chapter 1

On the final evening aboard  _ Terror  _ and  _ Erebus _ , once the sledges were packed full and secured for the night, and the men had begun to drift toward their hammocks and blankets for the last time, James Fitzjames made the short walk to  _ Terror  _ alone in order to calm his nerves. 

Strange, that walking used to be such a source of obvious pride to him.  _ Best walker in the Service.  _ And now he dreaded such a simple, natural act, even when it represented their best and most infinitesimal chance at survival. 

No amount of marginal skill or vanity could thwart their continued hubris, after all.

Coming down the hatch, he must have made too much noise, or else his steps were familiar; because seconds after James descended, Francis, wearing only his shirtsleeves and plain trousers, poked his head out from the wardroom, seeming first perplexed and then understanding.

“Come in, if you like.”

James obeyed, and closed the door behind him as he entered, although by this point, it was a rather futile gesture. Jopson had been absent from his duties more and more as they prepared to leave behind the luxuries of stewards and private cabins, and yet none of the other Terrors had come up to take his place. It was no small nod to the young man’s affability and helpful nature that Francis seemed to prefer the role unfilled, if Jopson himself could not do it.

Tragically, the altered situation meant the ward room was much less tidy than usual, which James thought rather a damn shame. Various books had been displaced, combined with a slurry of loose maps, papers, and other detritus piled loosely around the officers’ table, likely in readiness for the few men who had volunteered to remain behind. 

If they were being forced to abandon ship, it would not to do leave  _ Terror  _ in such condition. Whoever found her – if she were able to stay afloat long enough to be found – ought to be certain she was cared for in her final days. Ought to know they had only done this because they had no better option. The sort of love that could not be reflected in the log book with a single sentence.

It was Francis’s voice which jolted him out of his thoughts. “God’s blood, Fitzjames. Are you straightening the  _ bookshelves _ ?”

“Oh. Suppose I am.” James let his hand drop, and turned away from the remaining atlases, not sure how they’d suddenly arranged themselves into alphabetical order. “Must say, I feel a bit at loose ends, if you must know. Now that everything’s done.”

“As do I.” Francis gave him a sad sort of smile. “Still seems wrong, somehow.”

Fitzjames nodded once, in a distracted manner, to show that he had heard. It was difficult to think of leaving  _ Erebus,  _ after it had been his only home for nigh over three years. And Francis with  _ Terror,  _ surely the same. 

Golly. How long had Francis been on  _ Terror,  _ in total? The number of sea changes she weathered. The toll she took. Was it a full decade, in the end?

James opened his mouth to ask this question aloud, but was immediately silenced once he beheld the glassy-eyed, fraught look now fixed on Francis’s face. The man appeared as glum as if he were being asked to commit a deadly sin, and for once, James could not bear to see him so distressed. There was a difference between Francis’s usual melancholy – full of dark humour and gruff, prolonged stubbornness – and the quiet despair that now pulled at his mouth and distant eyes and normally-mischievous brow. 

And James hated that lost expression so much he felt such sadness ought to be erased from Francis’s face, if only for a single moment.

Without pausing to think, without any heed for persons who might admit themselves to the wardroom at this hour on the eve of a long, arduous journey southward, James crossed the room, cupped Francis’s face in two hands, and drew him into a kiss.

He had meant it to be a shock of a thing – impetuous, perhaps even passionate – but instead, the moment turned softer and more tender than either of their previous clinches. This time, it was Francis who was sweetly encircled in James’s embrace, and who swayed slightly on his feet under James’s careful ministrations, as if he knew not how to respond to such gentle and persistent affections.

Thus, when James finally drew back, feeling the heady rush of blood in his temples and chest and elsewhere, he noticed the telltale muscle quivering at the hinge of Francis’s jaw. Combined with the glossy sheen of the Irishman’s eyes in the lamplight, James thought he finally understood the reason for such uncharacteristic timidity, at least in part.

“Francis,” he said first, caressing a bold path along Francis’s pocked cheek with the pad of one thumb. “It’s all right.”

Francis closed his eyes. A bright dewdrop streaked down toward the left corner of his mouth. “You don’t believe that.”

“No.” James leaned in, kissed salt from the side of Francis’s crooked nose, and then captured his lips again, barely catching the top of his cupid’s bow this time. Francis inhaled sharply as it happened. “But I’ll not deny you of it.”

Just as James began to pull back, Francis leaned forward, chasing his mouth as if he had quite forgot to react to the earlier caresses.

“Please – ” shaking fingers grasped for purchase somewhere near James’s elbows, “ – don’t toy with me, James. Not this night.”

“No tricks, Francis.” James threaded the distance between them again, and kissed his dear captain’s furrowed brow. “I promise.” Next, James kissed the bridge of Francis’s nose, smiling as he drew back. “Not immediately, anyway.”

Francis made a soft, slightly-amused noise, and this was James’s cue to capture his lips again, until his fellow captain was slightly breathless, and had got his humour back under him.

“You’ve kissed more than one officer in a ward room, I reckon,” Francis rasped, as James bent his head to Francis’s collar, exploring a constellation of pale freckles with soft nips of teeth and fluttering swipes of his tongue. “Hm?”

Lifting his head, James caught Francis’s blown-wide gaze. Crozier’s pupils were dark starbursts of black against a vivid blue corona, eclipsing everything in their path.

“Yes,” he finally said, and caressed a small line across his fellow captain’s collarbone with the side of an index finger. His other hand settled into the crook of Francis’s hip. “Shall I show you?”

Halting, Francis nodded an affirmative, casting a quick glance at the closed door.

“Come on,” he said, and tugged at James’s sleeve. 

Quickly, they stepped into Francis’s berth, which still looked the same as ever. Francis seemed not to know what to do, now; thus, Fitzjames took over, stepping forward into his fellow captain’s intimate space. The inch of height he had on Francis meant they were standing nearly nose-to-nose, and so James cupped the other man’s face in one hand, and tilted his head accordingly to prevent a disastrous collision of noses. And suddenly Francis’ mouth was warm and wet and open under his, and James’ entire body was aflame. Without thinking, he urged them backwards into the carved bedrail, pouring everything he possessed into the kiss. When Francis’s back touched wood, his breath caught in his throat, and when James’s hands tangled in his shaggy red hair, he groaned aloud. God in heaven. James could have elicited a thousand of those lovely, needy noises from Francis’s lips, had they world enough and time, but before he could act further, the door creaked open, and Edward’s voice, careful and distant, rang out through the ward room.

“Captain?”

Gasping, Francis shoved James away at once, scrubbing at his face with one hand as he snarled, “What the blazes do you want, Edward?”

Wordless, James stumbled backwards, now practically sitting on the surface of the desk. Hunching forward, he pinched the bridge of his nose in one hand in an attempt to collect his thoughts. His raised hand trembled against his cheek.

“To fuckin’ talk to you, Francis, that’s what.” Blanky’s voice, accompanied by the hard  _ thunk!  _ of his wooden leg striking the creaking floorboards, echoed loudly through the ward room. “Good Christ. State of this place, they might think we beat ye to death by the damn privy.”

Francis made a resentful noise. The  _ step-thunk  _ of Blanky’s crooked walk increased in speed and volume, and suddenly Tom himself was there in the doorway, balancing himself against the frame with two hands, utterly laconic. James barely glanced up to confirm the ice master’s arrival before pinching at his nose again. 

In the absence of – well, what they had intended – a headache threatened to develop between his eyes. James did not think such throbbing was still located elsewhere, but it was likely best not to stand for now.

“Evening, Tom. Edward.”

“Ah, look who’s first down the hatch tonight.” A dark, raspy cackle. “Walloped ‘im in the nose again, eh, Francis?”

If the situation had not been so fraught, and if he were not still trying to appear as innocent as a midshipman merely caught idling at his post, James might have laughed. Tom Blanky, damn him, could always be counted on to bring down the tension in a room.

“Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ, Tom,” snapped Francis, and strode out of the berth; Tom pegged backwards to let him through. From this angle, James rather missed watching the threadbare greatcoat flapping behind Francis’s legs like the wings of a dark river bird. 

Outside in the greater ward room, Francis let out a deep sigh, and ran a hand through one side of his hair before turning to Edward. “What’s the latest report?”

“I – but, sir,” stammered Edward, who perhaps believed Blanky’s jest, as he sounded much more faint-hearted than usual. “Is Captain Fitzjames all right?”

James set his jaw, steeled his nerves, and rose from his makeshift seat. He was second on this expedition above all, and he would perform those duties to the very end. Even if it was inconvenient. Even if their numbers dwindled every day.

“Nothing a thorough report can’t cure, Edward. I’ll join you now.”

Summoning up the most pleasant countenance he could muster, James stepped out into the ward room, ready for what was perhaps the last briefing in Terror's berth. When he reached the table, he was careful not to meet Francis’s eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

The long, arduous trek across the uneven cliffs and low outcroppings from Terror Camp had taken them nearly an hour, but eventually, Francis and James trudged up to the rock cairn, scrawled a new message on the same page used by Graham Gore, and replaced the canister.

“Suppose we ought to start the walk back.”

Francis had not expected that they might strike up so long a conversation on the way over. James had become even more pale and withdrawn in the weeks since they’d left the ships behind, but today, happily, he seemed determined to summon the Fitzjames of old – talking amiably about their shared duties and concerns, telling a few adventurous stories, bragging of his prized walking skills, and so forth.

And suddenly, he began to relay a tale Francis had never heard – not even in whispers  – of ruined fathers and bastard sons, of pride and courage and bitter, bitter loneliness. Secret after secret tumbled from his lips, concluding in a shocking admission:

“I’m not even fully English.”

_ My god.  _ He was uncertain what to say first.

“I didn’t know that.”

A ragged sigh. “I’ve never said it out loud before.”

At that moment, Francis wanted to toss his walking stick into the slag, and close the distance between them at once. He had never seen such naked shame and forlorn quietude so plain on James’s face, not even after Carnivale. After all he’d done for Queen and country – everything he’d accomplished in his five-and-thirty years – and James truly believed his deeds could be so easily discounted? Each act of valor in his war chest only proved the truth of such indomitable character, particularly when contrasted against the ignoble circumstances of his birth. 

In truth, Francis would insist that such circumstances only added to the sheer merit of such feats. To be a ship’s boy at twelve, likely on some Portuguese man o’ war, and rise to the rank of Commander in Her Majesty’s fleet in only eighteen years – to become an expedition second and Captain aged thirty-five! All whilst concealing his true nature from the most highly-ranked and well-connected gentlemen of their acquaintance. No ordinary fellow who bore the bar sinister could have accomplished it. Only the most extraordinary. 

Only someone as singularly-driven and heedless and guilelessly charming as James.

“All those stories you would have my biographer tally as courage….it’s all vanity.” James swallowed, glanced down at the ground. “Always has been. And we are at the end of vanity.”

Damn the blasted scourge, damn the weevil-infested biscuits, and damn this foul black spectre that hung over his friend and brother’s heart. Francis Crozier hadn’t listened to that godforsaken Chinamen story at every officers’ mess for nothing!

Staking his walking stick into the ground, Francis strode over to James, and took him by the shoulders, until a forlorn James met his serious gaze.

“Then you are free.”

James exhaled a shaky breath.

“To do what?”

“Anything.” Francis squeezed his shoulders. “By God, man, hang whatever the buggering Admiralty or the bloody  _ ton _ could say about your conduct and character! I don’t give a good god-damn if you’re a bastard. To me, you – in front of me stands – the bravest, most courageous man I have ever known. You are no one’s fool. You are no preening peacock. You, James, are extraordinary. And a true friend, and my – my brother-in-arms.” He nodded his head, once, for emphasis. “And I’ll not ever know a finer man, here at the end of all things.”

“Are we brothers, Francis?” A tear rolled down James’ dusty cheek; his mouth and chin trembled with the effort of staying composed. “Often seems we are closer still. Closer than anyone. I should like that.”

His face crumpled. Francis quickly embraced him.

“Yes.” Clutching the back of James’s jacket in two fists, and tossing his second’s flat cap to one side, he peppered small kisses all across James’s hairline and crown, inhaling the twin scents of saccharine sweat and the salt rust of blood, all poorly masked by ice melt and thin scraps of lye soap. “You’re right, by God. I’ll not deny it.”

“I often think about the last night on Terror.” James lifted his head, met Francis’ eyes for a moment. “In your berth, when I got you up against the railing.”

A fleeting smile split Francis’s face; he ducked his head to obscure the sudden, strange urge to blush. “Seem to recall something like that.”

James did not smile back, simply reached up, cupped Francis’s face in one hand, and smoothed a lock of hair behind Francis’s flat cap. His hand lingered, long fingers caressing down the line of Francis’s jaw. “If we’d not been interrupted – I’d have asked you to take me, were you willing. Ever since you came to me on  _ Erebus _ , I have wished for little else.”

_ Oh. _

“I’m sorry,” whispered James.

Such a simple, fleeting request, in hindsight – and now Francis was not sure it could be done at all. They had neither the time nor the privacy nor the luxury of full health.

“Don’t be.”

“If we are truly at the end of all things, then you must hear this. I – have partaken in such base matters before, but with – with you – ” his voice cracked. “We’d have been exquisite, Francis.”

“I would have done,” Francis admitted after a small silence, in a voice no louder than a whisper. His eyes never left James’s gaunt face. “I – can do, even now, if you still wish it.”

_ James, I’d have had you as my sea-wife, right there in the open pack, right there in my berth. I’d have you anywhere in the world, were it now possible, and wouldn’t give a good god-damn about the rest. _

Two more tears streaked down his second’s cheek, but James said nothing more, simply moved his hand to rest on Francis’s shoulder, and pressed his forehead into Francis’s neck. Francis put one palm to the middle of James’s back.

They stayed like this for several moments, not speaking, until finally James stirred and moved upright. Francis clapped him on the shoulder one last time, and gave him back his cap. Their fingers brushed as he did so, causing him to search out James’s hand. 

For his part, James did not let go immediately; not until they’d traversed the last and steepest ridge did he finally pull away.

They continued walking.


	3. Chapter 3

“Bridgens.”

Lying in his wolfskin bag in the middle of his tent, Fitzjames motioned the old steward over with a wave, and heaved out a loud sigh. Difficult request. Had to be done.

“Need something,” he began, as Bridgens crossed to his side, his expression a question as he glanced at the water jug. “No. Not that.”

Not quite.

“Name it, Captain.” The old steward’s voice was soft, but still genial, as he stepped forward. “If it’s within my power, I’ll most gladly help.”

“Might not.” Fitzjames tried to smile in a winning manner; a fresh surge of pain rippled through his jaw. “Want to wash.”

Bridgens made a surprised face, but did not protest. “Course, sir. I’ll have one of the men fetch some ice melt for a shave.”

“No. You – ” Fitzjames closed his eyes, wet dry, cracked lips with a parched tongue. “Not just the face. Elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere,” Bridgens repeated. A perplexed furrow settled into his brow.

Fitzjames leveled the man with the most exasperated look he could muster. “Like a bridegroom.”

Inert as he was, spent as he was, watching the sudden, quiet flash of shock light up Bridgens’ usual poker face was something to be savored. Fitzjames had rarely been so candid with another sailor about his versatility, but at this point, any thought for discretion was a formality at best and an impedance at worst. Bridgens was a known sodomite, and was always hanging about with Peglar on some pretend errand or another whenever they made camp. James himself would likely not live to see month’s end. What in seven hells did it matter if the old steward knew the truth? 

If it could be done – if Francis could somehow come to him, lay with him, be with him – then James would take that chance, reputation and honor be damned.

“Oh. Oh, I see,” said Bridgens. Somehow, the cheer in his face only multiplied, despite the outrageous burden Fitzjames now asked of him. “Well, sir, in truth I do not know if we can melt enough water – though we can but try.” A small pause. “Lord knows I’ll not deny you such a comfort, at the end.”

“‘M not asking you to bed me, Bridgens,” James sighed, and sank back into the fur. Poor Peglar might burst into tears, were that the case. “Just – to assist me in this singular matter, prior. Tonight.”

“Yes. I – I do understand that.”

There was a flicker of something James could not discern in the old steward’s eyes: sympathy? Suspicion? Did he truly comprehend the reason behind this request?

“I’ll return before last watch, then,” said Bridgens after a moment, and straightened to his full height. “Will there be anything else for now, sir?”

“No,” said James, and suppressed a cough. “Be off with you, then.”

 

##

 

“Tom?”

Lifting the tent flap, Francis glanced inside, saw his old friend stretched out inside his wolfskin bag with a pipe in one hand, and none of the other tent mates in sight.

“Eyup, Frankie.” And the old shit grinned at him, revealing a few jagged, blackening teeth. “What brings you to the quarterdeck?”

Francis rolled his eyes. An annoyed snort escaped him. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ. You know I bloody hate being called Frankie.”

“Aye, that ye do.” Blanky took another drag from his pipe. Francis was surprised to smell tobacco in the air; seemed as if their stores had disappeared ages ago. “Somethin’ on your mind, then, Capt’n?”

Francis dithered in the entryway a moment longer, still silent.

“Blimey. ‘Oo’s snuffed it now?”

“No one,” Francis snapped, then softened his tone. “Obviously came to speak to you, you old fucking codger.”

“Well, wipe thy bloody feet and get on with it, ye gormless git.” Blanky puffed out two smoke rings.

God-damn it all to hell. Francis huffed out a sigh, then moved to sit on the ground, just next to the raised lump that was Blanky’s boots, concealed in the bottom of the bag. Why the man still had a double-pair of boots after all this time, he’d no bloody idea.

“When they fashioned that great ugly lump – ” jabbing at Blanky’s whittled peg leg, “ – did Mister Honey give over something for the foot socket?”

“Aye,” said Blanky, with a nod, and sat up. “Rapeseed grease from down below. Got to grease the oyl ‘n nails up each night. Keep the rust out.”

“Right.”

Francis paused, squeezed his eyes shut. Just say it, god-damn you. Just say the fucking words aloud.  _ I need to borrow it from you. Tonight. And for god’s sake, don’t ask why. _

“All right, clart-head. Slithee now, ‘cause I’ve summat to tell ya.”

Francis tossed him a dagger-filled glare.

“When I was a young lad, me grandad used’t say: heer all, see all, an' sey nowt. ‘Eet all, supp all, an' pay nowt. An' if tha ever does owt fer nowt do it fer thissen.”

“What in seven  _ fucking _ hells is this poppycock to do with me, then?”

“Means if ye’re goin’ to do summat for naught, do it for yourself, eh?”

“For fuck’s sake, Tom. I need to – ‘m asking for your – ”

“Aye, Francis, I know what you’re really askin’.” Blanky leveled him with a piercing stare. “And you’re as thick as two short planks if you truly think I’ve not noticed ‘ow ye look at our Jamie, or why ye’ve got a sudden urgent need for socket grease, not four and twenty hours after the two of ya came back from the cairn all alone.”

“What?” whispered Francis, now sitting as stiff as if he’d frozen solid.

“Who?” Blanky mocked. “Come off it, Francis. Ye’d make a better door than a window. He’s been heartsunk for ya since before we walked owt. And you for ‘im.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Tom!” Francis scrubbed both hands over his face, hissing out the next words through clenched teeth. “Well, I’m not a god-damned sodomite, am I?”

It wasn’t a question.

“Course you’re not,” said Blanky calmly, and took another drag off his pipe. “Can’t say I’d care if ye buggered ‘im, though.”

Francis’s eyes widened.

Blanky just shrugged, leaned over, and filched a small tin of salve from the top of his bag with his right hand. Tossing this towards Francis with a grunt, he sat up again.

“Way I reckon, we’re dead and happ’d up, will ye or nill ye. Not long till our Tuunbaq comes round again, and if ‘e won’t, our favourite parley captain’s like to knife us in the back as well as look at us.” He blew out another series of smoke rings. “So if you doff thy duds an’ fuck ‘im blind, don’t make much matter to me.”

Blinking very rapidly, Francis managed to nod, once. “Right.”

“Aye. It’s a thraip in th’ stones, make no mistake.” And Blanky had the nerve to laugh, dark and knowing. “Though you might take a shine to that, if hurpling Jim’s th’ new – ”

“Ah, fuck off,” growled Francis, voice cracking over the words. Thankfully, the ice master pretended not to notice that he’d had to swipe at his eyes with one sleeve before speaking again. “There’ll be none of – whatever Tyke codswallop you’ve just said.”

“Won’t there, Frankie boy? Your tackle’s black as th’ fire-back, eh?”

Francis’s face got hot. “Shut your fuckin’ gob, you gimpy halfwit.” With a ragged laugh, he leaned forward and shoved at Blanky’s shoulder with one hand. 

The ice master barely even startled, just tipped backwards with an uproarious cackle, and kicked at Francis’s hip with his remaining leg, wheezing with laughter all the while. 

“Fucking dickhead, you are! Don’t know why I even bother with ya.”

Their mirth continued for nearly a minute before Tom finally sobered, and went to re-light his pipe.

“Ah, Francis. There’s nowt so queer as folk.”

Careful not to look at Tom, Francis picked up the small tin of salve, put it into his waistcoat pocket, and quickly got to his feet. “I’ll have this back to you in the morning, then.”

“See that you do.” He began to whistle. “Good night, Captain.”

Francis quickly took his leave.

 

##

 

Walking through Terror Camp at the end of the last dog watch, Francis attempted not to draw much attention to himself. Apart from the watch, there were no pressing duties, and so the camp was quieter than usual. Each step seemed to announce his true purpose; even if the men loved or hated him – and by now, there were plenty in the latter group – each footstrike seemed to echo his obscene intentions. 

_ I’m going to bed James. Bugger James. Fuck James. _

His heart sped up till it reached double-time. Oh, Christ.

By the time he reached the tent, he had to stop just outside the entrance, and take a quick, deep breath. Courage.

When he pushed open the flap, and went inside, the old steward was within, and was the first to acknowledge Francis’s presence.

“Evening, sir.”

“Mr. Bridgens.” Behind the old steward, Fitzjames sat up, and gave a weak wave. “Lo, James. Are you better rested today?”

“You’ll be pleased to hear the lie-in’s helped all of us, Captain Crozier.” Bridgens gathered up a pan and a couple of rags from James’s bedside with a small smile. “Captain Fitzjames even asked for a shave, earlier.”

“Really?” Francis raised an eyebrow at Fitzjames, who managed to look very smug about this turn of events. And was indeed clean-shaven, or as close as one could be, in these conditions. Though this didn’t make the man look much younger – he was still much too gaunt and pale for that – it had been a clear effort. “Well, for god’s sake, don’t tell Jopson. He’ll demand that I – ”

Belatedly, he recalled that poor Jopson was feeling worse every day, thanks to the damned scourge. If the lad did not get something decent to eat soon, performing his usual duties and fussing over Francis would be the least of their worries.

“Er. Anyway. Thank you, Mister Bridgens.”

Bridgens nodded. “Of course. Now, if you’ll permit me, I think I shall, ah, go and see if Mister Goodsir could use a hand in the sick bay tent.”

“Course,” said Francis, and turned to glance at his second. “James? Will you be needing anything else before Bridgens leaves?”

“No. He has already done more than enough,” answered James with a weak smile. Francis supposed that was referring to the constant hovering. Mother Bridgens was well known for smothering his patients. Although in James’s case, perhaps the concern was warranted. “Give the good doctor our best.”

“I will do, yes.”

And Bridgens bade them both goodnight.

Fitzjames waited until the old steward’s footsteps had faded along the rocky path, and blended into the sounds of the howling winds, before sitting up and motioning Francis forward. “Aren’t you going to greet me, Francis?”

Francis could already feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Were his hands trembling? “Course I am, you great loon.”

A small, but no less fond sigh. “Shall I tell you what I want? How to go at it?”

Their eyes met. Francis had no idea how James was managing to look like  _ that  _ – so damned magnetic – when he could hardly walk a mile unaided after the long and grueling march from the ships.

_ I’m not your bloody ship’s boy,  _ he would normally have growled.  _ Don’t order me about. _

“Yes,” was all he said, quiet.

James pursed his lips in a satisfied way. “Get undressed, then.”

Quickly, Francis began to strip off his outer layers, depositing his hat, greatcoat and mittens onto the fur mat beneath James’s bag. Upon this pile, he placed his jackets, and then tucked waistcoat, sweaters, and shirt beneath the jackets. Wouldn’t keep out the damp, but perhaps they’d not ice over in the dead of night. Or however long he might spend here.

Now he was clad only in his linens, shivering, with no bloody idea what to do next.

James’s voice, soft as it was, pierced through the quiet. He unzipped the bag. “Come and warm up.”

“Oh, thank god,” Francis huffed, and quickly sat down on the furs next to James, removing his boots first, maneuvering them awkwardly into the bottom of the bag with assistance – the stinking wool still sharp and icy toward the bottom – before gratefully crawling in. “Bloody freezing, isn’t it?”

It had been so long since he’d shared so much as a bag with another sailor. Not since he was a midshipman. And this time, he was nearly lying chest to chest with the god-damned pride of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, preparing to fuck the man arseways. A hanging offense.

And Francis found perhaps he shivered from perhaps more than the cold as James put his arms around him, nosed into the curve of his neck, and kissed his pulse point.

“Christ, ‘m glad I shaved,” he groaned, as James laved kisses down the hollow of his throat. His hips tilted into James’ stomach. Their boots shuffled together in the bottom of the bag, a couple of boulders scraping over the icy gravel. “Ah, fuck, James.” 

James rumbled out a soft noise against Francis’s neck, and suddenly one hand dipped between them, gliding down under his linens and past his belly to the wiry short curls below. He stopped here, spread his fingers, and then closed them around the roots, tugging gently up with a half-clenched fist. Francis twitched and groaned.

“Bastard.”

“Course.” A huff of breath. James’s hand gently caressed the head of Francis’s cock, one fingertip nudging past the tip to tease the vein beneath the head. “Oh, Francis. So soft.”

Francis whimpered.

Hard to keep quiet. It had been so long.

Thus, when James removed his hand, fumbled around his linens for a small vial, and uncorked it, Francis could have killed him. The vial turned out to contain some kind of oil, which James drizzled directly onto Francis’s cock before resuming his attentions.

Francis nearly sobbed with relief. “Oh,  _ fuck,  _ that’s good _. _ ” His nose was buried in James’s greasy hair. He could smell blood and sweat and the remnants of something new, fresher. “‘S that pine pitch?”

“Frankincense oil.” James continued rubbing him. “Sir John’s private stores.”

_ Jesus bloody Christ. _

“Like trees. Woods.” Francis bucked up, once, and gasped. After several minutes, the scent, combined with James’s knowing touch, was overwhelming. 

“‘M close, James.”

“I know.” Another kiss against his temple, gentler this time. James let go of him, caressed his stomach. “I know, Francis. Here. Ought to turn over.”

Obligingly, Francis went to roll onto his back, to pull James atop him, but James stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Like this.” He guided Francis’s left arm over his side, clearly indicating that they were going to lie back to front. “Easier.”

“Oh,” said Francis, somehow disappointed. He wanted to see James’s face at the point of no return; he wanted to see the lamplight glinting in his eyes as Francis fucked him. “Right.”

Awkwardly, they tussled into position within the bag in the half-dark, Francis as keen and awkward as the greenest lad, and James purposeful and apologetic in return.

“Sorry,” James murmured, as his elbow tapped Francis in the stomach. 

“Blast!” A piece of gravel lodged painfully under Francis’s bicep as he moved backwards to make room for his second. “God-damned rocks.”

“Should’ve got a second bag,” James muttered as he shifted backwards.

“Should’ve brought a bloody Shanghai whore bed, more like.” 

Francis said it more sternly than intended.

But James laughed, and suddenly, the tension was broken. Francis slid one arm beneath James’s waist. Carefully, his second reached behind, took Francis’s hand and guided it up to one hip, before pressing his arse back into Francis’s prick. Even half-clothed, with only James’s linens between them, it was enough to steal his breath.

“You should’ve seen the beds there, Francis.” A soft sigh as Francis kissed the back of his neck, let his fingers wander down starvation-thin ribs. “Silk and satin and velvet. Feather-down bedding. Beautiful.”

“Like you.” 

Francis grasped James’s cock in one hand as he continued kissing James’s neck and shoulders and ears, eliciting a sharp hiss of breath.

“Good Christ.”

The sound went straight to Francis’s prick. He did not understand how a simple catch of breath could affect him so completely, nor had he realised how wholly eager his body had become to transgress this final barrier with his fellow Captain.

“Did you imagine this all day?” he rasped out, which drew another soft groan from James’s lips. “God, you’re slick.”

“I did. I did.” A desperate noise; he bucked against Francis’s pelvis with a noticeable shiver. “Ready me.”

James’s voice broke across the last word, and suddenly Francis could not wait to have him. As instructed, he fumbled with James’s vial of oil, slicking it first between his buttocks and then circling his fingers around the tight, puckered ring of muscle, surprised and then pleased by how much James shuddered at the intimate contact. 

“Inside,” gasped James, after at least a minute of teasing. “Inside.”

Francis obeyed, trembling like a leaf when he inserted the first finger into James, and taut muscle cinched tight around his knuckle. “This way?”

“Yes.” James was slightly out of breath. “Angle down, till you f-feel – ah! There.”

Before James, Francis had never given thought to how pleasurable finger-fucking a man could be, but the way James was biting back whimpers as Francis stroked him, already shuddering in his arms, contradicted this notion. 

And the heady satisfaction Francis felt at coaxing such reactions from his fellow captain was utterly hypnotic. How was this possible? How could this be?

“Please, Francis. Now.”

No time, no time, there was no time, yet Francis could not help drawing out this moment as long as possible, clutching James in his arms and pressing another quick kiss into his hair before withdrawing his hand, slicking himself up, and positioning himself at James’s entrance.

“I’ll go it slowly.”

And he bore-in, smoothly as he could, though the sudden, lock-tight cinch of muscle around his cock was enough to ruin him.

“Ah!” His fingers tightened on James’s hips, shocked beyond language. “Hmm.”

James was trembling again, harder this time. Tension rippled through his zylophone spine, pressed tight to Francis’s chest. “Christ. Feels – you’re so – ”

“You’re hotter than hell,” Francis whispered into James’s ear, ready to take his second’s cock in hand and pleasure him until they both spilled. “So good, James.”

Tentatively, he pulled back, then thrust up to the hilt. Again. Again. He started a rhythm.

Small wonder sodomites didn’t give a damn if they were hanged. Right now, Francis wanted to fuck James till they were both spent. He wanted to stay like this forever.

“Gentle,” warned James. His breath caught in his throat. “Been awhile.”

“Sorry.” Francis loosened his hold, slowed his thrusts. Don’t hurt him. He won’t heal. “Better?”

“‘S good.” Adjusting one arm, James took Francis’s left hand in both of his, brought it up to his lips and kissed the torn palm, still raw and smarting from the run-in with the telescope. “There.”

For several minutes, they did not speak, simply moved as one. Francis’s left hand was pressed to James’s heart, attuned to every double-time beat as their unspoken urgency increased. James’s head pillowed against Francis’s bicep, and every so often, he would groan low in his throat. Each gasp and huff and sigh was a reverberation that echoed straight through Francis’s core, and made him more prick-forward than ever.

“James. James. Fucking lovely.” He couldn’t stop talking. “How can y’last like this?”

“I can’t,” whispered James, writhing against Francis with new desperation. “Francis, I can’t. I – ”

“Then don’t.” Francis growled, and shuddered at the ragged, delicious whine this provoked. “Want to feel you shoot, by God.”

“Yes.” Another shiver ran through James’s body. “Yes. Don’t stop.”

With new urgency, Francis moved his hand from where it was anchored against James’s breast, and rubbed at the head of his cock, then reached below and tugged up at the base of his stones, trying to time the movements perfectly as he continued thrusting. James threw his head back against Francis’s shoulder with a bitten-back yelp.

“‘M gonna come.”

_ A rún. _ Yes. Yes. Francis could feel it in the trembling tautness of James’s limbs, the twitching of his hot stiff cock, the way his innermost muscles clamped round – oh, buggering fucking  Christ _ ,  _ he –

Whimpering, James released over Francis’s wrist, bearing down on Francis’s cock at the same time, shivering and gasping as deeply as if he’d fallen fully-clothed through the ice, while Francis was wholly overcome by the sheer heat of him, and buried himself to the hilt until he spent into James, over and over, smelling salt and brass and sweat, all mixed in with trees.

“That was,” limp and panting in his arms, James could hardly string two words together, “that was…”

“ _ Tá tú go hálainn. _ ” Francis’s eyes slid closed. “ _ Mo ghrá dhil. _ ”

A soft wheeze of amusement. “Lord. Well, I don’t know what that was.”

“Wha’?” Francis blinked his eyes open. Had he said something aloud? “Bollocks.”

“Think you’ve gone positively primeval, Francis,” observed Fitzjames with a laugh. Sounded as if he were smiling. “Irish as the day you were born.”

“Shut up, you fucking great lummox.”

But Francis smiled too, and kissed James’s bare shoulder, and for a moment, he was able to forget the stink of death and misery, the howl of the wind or how the groaning of the ice or the beast outside was like to kill them. Instead he focused on the warmth of James’s frail frame next to his, the steady thumping of his heart against Francis’s chest, and the soft sound of their mingled breaths echoing around the dreary Holland tent.

“ _ Mo ghrá dhil, James, _ ” he said again, and kissed James’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some great Yorkshire-isms from Blanky this chapter:
> 
> "Heer all, see all, an' sey nowt. ‘Eet all, supp all, an' pay nowt. An' if tha ever does owt fer nowt do it fer thissen.” = Hear all, see all, and say nothing. Eat all, drink all, and pay nothing. And if you ever do something for nothing, do it for yourself.
> 
> Dead and happed up = dead and buried  
> Will ye or nill ye = willing or unwilling  
> Hurpling = to stick up the back, as a beast huddling under a hedge in cold weather
> 
> Also, if my pidgin Irish Gaelic is wrong, y'all are free to correct me. The new English/Irish dictionary only got me so far. XD
> 
> A rún. = Darling/Here, darling.  
> Tá tú go hálainn. = You're so beautiful.  
> Mo ghrá dhil. = My dear love (dearest love?)


	4. Chapter 4

Many events blurred together in James’s mind over the next few weeks.

Hauling. Endless hauling.

A suicide. A murder. 

A hanging.

All accompanied by the constant ache of hunger and thirst: nigh unquenchable. 

One by one, more and more of their remaining men dropped to their deaths in the frozen wasteland, now-skeletal limbs stiff with starvation and their faces spotted white-grey-black, the same color as ancient sorrel ponies overworked in the fields. Only there was no practical farmer here to shoot them dead.

Dogged in his own determination to press forward, James could not say he grieved any of the lost men particularly well, nor said the sorts of tributes a Captain ought to bestow on those who served under him. But he and Francis, exhausted though they were, kept on. Until James could no longer haul, but limp next to the boats with a walking stick.

Until one day, when Tom Blanky sat down on a rock just shy of summer dusk, and refused to budge from his post.

It took an infuriated (terrified) Francis all of ten minutes to walk back for him after they’d hauled the boats to their next makeshift camp, James limping at Crozier’s side all the while. When they finally arrived, he was so dizzy he had to lean on the rock next to Blanky just to get his breath back.

Francis did not seem to notice the extent of James’s condition, but turned his full Irish temper on the ice master. “What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing, you fucking lunatic?”

Blanky just shrugged. “Takin’ the air, ye fuckin’ loon. Havin’ a smoke.”

“Bugger the fuckin’ air, Thomas! There’s no time for a god-damned smoke when – ”

Anticipating that Francis’s angry bluster would not die down for several minutes, James decided to intervene, in order to discover the root of this particular problem with better expedience.

“Francis,” huffed James, sagging against his makeshift crutch, “stop howling at Master Blanky and walk over there for a moment.”

“What?!  _ Why _ , by Christ?”

Francis shot him an outraged look. 

James did not budge, merely raised an eyebrow. “Because I am  _ asking _ you, Francis.”

Francis carded two hands through his hair with a growl. “God-fucking-blast your asking, James. Be quick about it.” 

This done, he stalked off.

James waited till the Irishman was about twenty meters away before propping his crutch against the rock face and taking a seat, wincing against the sharp shrapnel pull of his hips as he straightened up. Leaning back on his hands wasn’t much better, but at least it took the pressure off his back and legs.

“Care for a smoke, then?” asked Blanky, still puffing away at the pipe.

“No.” James shook his head. “Lungs.”

“Oh, aye.”

For several seconds, they sat in knowing silence, watching Francis pace and glare at them and fidget angrily in the distance.

“Not the wooden leg, is it,” James said finally. “Why you’ve stopped.”

Not a question.

A pointed raise of one eyebrow.

“‘Course it’s not, Jamie boy.” After a moment, Blanky reached forward, began to roll up his trouser leg. By the time he got to his stump, and unlatched the dark, blood-soaked sling, James already knew the true reason. “Fuckin’ green rot, innit.” 

This was all Blanky said as he exposed his hank of raw, inflamed flesh to the air, and sat back up, as conversationally as if they’d begun discussing the weather.

“Good Christ.”

Underneath the bandages, a large portion of Blanky’s stump had turned a vivid greenish-grey, with a bone protruding shock-white from the end of all. Angry black and purple lines ran all the way up his thigh and under Blanky’s trouser leg – probably past his prick or stomach at least. The entire leg positively throbbed with infection. 

How could he have walked so far on a limb like this, without giving away his condition? How could he have forced himself to go on?

Hesitant to reveal what was truly occurring, James chanced a look at Francis, whose pinched expression looked frantic even from this distance. He quickly glanced back to the Ice Master before he could give away too much.

“So.” Blanky swallowed, hard, and lowered his pipe. “Tha’s that, then.”

“Damn it,” sighed James after a moment. The ice master was right. “Oh, Lord.”

“Aye. Well-fucked and no mistake.”

They sat in bittersweet silence for nearly a minute before James spoke again.

“Is there anything you need, Mister Blanky?”

He was prepared to hand over any item that might prove useful: get to his feet, tug off his own boots, even, when the Ice Master put a rough, weathered hand over the back of James’s palm.

Blinking, James glanced up in alarm.

“Take care of that grumpy bugger for me, eh, James?” Blanky inclined his head towards where Francis now stood still, hands braced behind his head. “Cause he loves ya with his whole heart, even if ‘e won’t say so.”

“Thomas.” And now James blinked for reasons other than horror. “I – ”

“Ah, don’t waste breath denying it, duck. Francis loves ye, I love ‘im like a brother, and ‘m asking you to see he don’t fuck it up. Get all deep in his head, like.”

“He does do that,” James admitted in a whisper. Blanky’s hand still covered his. “But – you truly believe Francis’s feelings are – that he might – care for me?”

_ The way I do him? _

A loud snort. “James, you great tosser, a fuckin’ blind deaf mute could see ‘e’s besotted. Chrissakes. Stares at thee like ye’ve just invented the bloody sun. And that’s been true long before the walk, mind, so understand ‘ow long I’ve had to put up with his blithering moon-eyed claptrap. Our Francis loves you, make no mistake about that.” A pause. “And I think y’know your own heart, same as his.”

Patting James’s hand one last time, Blanky withdrew, and picked up his pipe.

“As for me, I‘m dead chuffed. My best mate and the hero of Shangkiang. Quite a step up in the world for our Frank.”

Despite their circumstances, James could not resist asking the next question. “Better than Miss Cracroft?”

“Jesus God, Franklin’s niece.” A dark, knowing chuckle. “Y’know, she frigged Francis in a pond in Van Diemen’s Land. Probably half the Navy, too, in the end. So you’re leagues better by that standard alone.”

James could not help grinning.

“Lord,” he said again, exhaling loudly. “Tom Blanky. The pride of Yorkshire. The man who bested Tuunbaq.”

“Hah!” Blanky croaked out a laugh. “I’m keepin’ that one, mind.”

Heavy, stomping footsteps moving in their direction indicated that Francis had finally got tired of waiting, and was damned impatient to stop this folly in its tracks.

“All right, Tom, I’ll not have any more of this sodding buggering nonsense. Get up.”

“Shan’t.”

More urgent. “Shall.”

A shrug. “Won’t.”

“Yes, you bloody fuckin’ will!” Kicking at a patch of freezing ice and hard gravel, Francis clenched his jaw as he tried to speak. “Thomas Paul Blanky, if you don’t get off your bloody arse – ”

“Francis Rawdon  _ girl’s name _ Crozier, look at tha’ green-gilled bone there, and tell me my fuckin’ chances of walking much further,” Blanky retorted calmly, gesturing to his ruined leg. “Our Goodsir and Bridgens’ve done quite a bit, mind, but they ain’t cured gangrene, last I reckoned.”

“Well, they bloody well could,” Francis croaked out after several seconds, folding both shirtsleeved arms over his chest. Tears had welled in his eyes. “They’d try  something .”

“Francis,” James murmured.

As the Irishman glanced from Blanky to James, his mulish expression turned shattered. When he spoke again, his voice was a whisper. 

“Not you, too.”

“Right.” Blanky gestured toward James for the makeshift cane; James handed it over without a word as the ice master got to his feet with a groan. “Francis, quit mithering and fucking come ‘ere.”

Leaning heavily on the cane, Blanky crutched forward, and they walked several paces away. James watched the two men with tired eyes as Tom put a hand to Francis’s back, and talked to him in a low, quiet tone for what seemed like five minutes, occasionally glancing back at the rocks where James sat. Francis did not say much, just kept shaking his head no, over and over, and shifted from side to side as if he couldn’t bear to stand in one place for the duration of this argument.

Then, they embraced as brothers: Blanky thumping Francis on the shoulders with soft, short taps of one palm, and Francis clutching to Blanky with all his might, gripping his waistcoat tight in two fists. When they parted, James saw Francis drag his sleeve across his eyes as the two men walked back to the rocks.

“Here you are, then, our Jim,” said Blanky as he settled back into his seat, and handed over the walking stick. “Proper champion stick, that.”

“Be well, Tom.” James pressed a brotherly hand to Blanky’s bicep. “Might we give you anything?”

Francis was already turning out his pockets, muttering to himself. “Christ. I’ve no food. Just – well, have this.” He handed over his nearly-full canteen without a second’s pause. “Or – or the compass, for all the bloody good it’ll do – ”

“Nah.” Blanky took the canteen, but waved off the rest, gesturing to a bundle at his side. “Don’t need nowt. I’ll just keep the forks, if it’s all the same to thee.”

Both James and Francis swiveled to stare at him.

_ “Forks?!”  _ bellowed Francis.

 

##

 

That night, James waited till the noise of the camp had more or less died down. There were a few men still left on watch - not many true Marines left, after Tozer’s hanging – but he was more or less able to wriggle up from his bag, get his coat and muffler on, and limp out of his own tent without much trouble.

Granted, he had to pause and wheeze for breath a couple of times, but soon enough, he was at his destination, tapping out a light knock into the gravel with his walking stick.

“Francis.”

No reply. 

James tried the flap; the tent was open, barely secured into the ground by a few rods and leftover rocks. Inside, Francis lay in his bag, unmoving, although James was certain he was not asleep.

“Not going to swear at me, hm?” 

Still no reply. James unwound his muffler from his face, and tossed this aside, adding his coat to the pile at the end of the furs. Unperturbed, he limped closer, slowly lowered himself down onto the end of Francis’s bag, and placed the stick on the gravel next to them before scooting closer to Francis. Even this much made his joints ache in all the wrong places, but he considered it a small price to pay.

“Forward, please,” he said crisply, nudging Francis’s shoulder.

Although the Irishman yanked down the zipper, and rolled to his right so that James could get his boots in the bag and subsequently join him, he still did not speak.

“Shall I regale you with a daring story?” James asked as he settled into the bag, and draped one arm across Francis’s hip. Although he was taking pains to hide it, Francis’s entire body was trembling with the effort of staying composed. “Haven’t debuted my Shangkiang tale in quite some time, you know. I may forget how it goes entirely before we arrive at Fort Resolution.”

Nothing. Damn.

“Unless you’ve one you like better. I daresay you might enjoy hearing about the ship’s cat we kept on the  _ Clio _ – ”

“James.” 

Francis’s voice cracked over the word.

_ Oh, my dear fellow. _

Without speaking, James took Francis by the left hand, laced their fingers together, and drew their joined hand up to Francis’s chest. The broken-glass pain in his right shoulder was near-excruciating in this position, but James refused to budge.

Tom Blanky had said Francis loved him. He was certain of it. But how exactly had the ice master known? How had he looked when he said it? The phrasing in question had somehow receded behind a thick fog, and James did not know if he could traverse through those clouds again.

Francis was weeping in a stifled manner, now, sniffling and choking and gasping as silently as was possible, given the circumstances. James did not comment on this visible outpouring of grief, as poorly-concealed as a ship’s boy’s homesick sobs – nor did he attempt to speak again, simply pressed his forehead into the back of his lover’s dirty nightshirt. What was the Irish verse he had returned to on Erebus, night after night, so many months ago?

_ The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn. _

Pressed against the heat and reduced bulk of Francis’s shivering, too-thin frame, James felt a renewed pull of grief deep in his guts, as it mingled with regret in the twilight polar dark. Not for the first time, he feared that the bone-deep ache in his heart would only grow fiercer and more overwhelming with time, until it consumed all in its wake. 

Until it consumed him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn." is from William Allingham's "The Winding Banks of Erne [Adieu to Ballyshannon]”, which I figured was the closest pre-Raphaelite Irish poet to this voyage.


	5. Chapter 5

Comfort Cove, John Bridgens decided as he soaked another flannel in ice melt, and brought the water-laden pan to a feverish Captain Fitzjames’s bedside, was no name at all for a dark place such as this. Its hollow, harsh sounds felt cruel and awkward in his mouth, particularly when it came to the pressing task before them.

Inside his Holland tent, Captain Fitzjames lay wheezing in his bag, sunken-cheeked and glassy-eyed with fever, while Captain Crozier sat hunched by his bedside. The expedition leader had not left Fitzjames’s tent in nearly three days. Through the bleak hours of this polar night, Bridgens had witnessed Francis Crozier nurse  _ Erebus _ ’s Captain more tenderly than many husbands attended their own wives and children. As carefully as if Captain Fitzjames were a small babe, Crozier mopped his friend’s scabbed, tense brow and scalp with a cool cloth, held him upright time and time again as he vomited blood and bile, and even walked Captain Fitzjames around the room, aided by Lloyd and Goodsir. Even after Fitzjames became too weak to stand and his limp, paralyzed legs dragged the icy, rocky ground, Crozier still continued forward in all these matters. He refused to yield to the illness that had Captain Fitzjames in its sinister grasp.  

John did not know how to make him see that such efforts were proving fruitless.

“He’s still shivering,” was all Crozier said, as he took the cloth from the proffered basin and gingerly dabbed one corner of the flannel around Fitzjames’s dirty, blood-flecked shirt. The  _ Erebus  _ Captain was now gasping for breath in a way that signified trouble ahead. “We must warm him, John.”

_ I do not know if we can,  _ John thought, but he refused to speak this aloud. A man must have hope, even at the end. If Captain Crozier could not hold even a thread of it at his dying beloved’s bedside, what would such a loss mean for the rest of their party?

“We can but try, sir.”

A tiny cough from the bed, no more than a puff of air, but both men caught the sound and turned back to Fitzjames, stunned. He had not so much as sighed out in exhaustion in over two days. Not since they had stopped the constant vomiting. Not since he had stopped screaming from the pain.

“John, what does that mean?” Crozier glanced from Fitzjames to Bridgens, a feverish spark now lighting up his face in the most terrible manner. “Did you hear him? Is it good?”

“Don’t rightly know, sir,” was all Bridgens could say. “It may be so.”

Sometimes, a stirring or a cough could indicate positive news. Other times, not. And Bridgens did not dare shatter Crozier’s illusions on the matter till they could be certain either way. Doctor Goodsir would know far better than he in this respect.

“James,” rasped Captain Crozier now, barely a whisper, as he leaned down toward his fellow captain’s bedside, and clasped one limp, fine-boned hand in both of his. “Speak to me, James. Grip my fingers, hm? I’m here. I – ”

A harsh clicking noise from the bed. He was trying to swallow.

“F – francis.”

Dark eyes forced themselves open to the lamplit room, barely more than a sliver, as if his eyelids had been dragged upright without their own volition. But Captain Fitzjames’s eyes were open, and he had spoken, or was trying to, at any rate.

Crozier, by contrast, could not get out another word, and the expression on his face cracked open into something so intimate and utterly raw that John forced himself to glance away for several seconds.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, James.” Far from its raging typhoon command, Crozier’s voice kept hitching, and his craggy face was a rictus of hidden pain. “If it hurts you….”

“‘S all right,” croaked Fitzjames, each syllable a drawn effort. “Want’d to.”

“Course you did.” A sob, poorly muffled by Crozier’s tense, clenched jaw. “‘Did’y forget to brag about Sh – Shangkiang? Well, I s - s’pose I’d better hear it. Speak to me of it for the – for the next hour at – ”

A hushed, pained noise. 

When John glanced back toward the sickbed, he saw that Fitzjames’s breathing was harsh and erratic, but his feverish eyes were open, now locked onto Crozier’s. 

“Tom was – right. About me.”

“‘Bout what?” An anguished muscle twitched in Crozier’s jaw. “Tom’s not here, James.”

“Th’ by – th’ by – th’ book – ”

By the book? What was by the book? Which – oh, my lord.

“The Good Book,” Bridgens interrupted quietly, which caused Crozier to flinch, and Fitzjames to slump against his pillows in a mixture of exhaustion and relief. “Captain Fitzjames, do you wish for – ?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it all. We’ll get one, James.” Crozier’s expression bordered on panicked. Clearly, he was not certain whether they had brought Bibles with them from the ships, though they had been swimming in the texts back on  _ Terror  _ and  _ Erebus _ , thanks to Sir John. “I swear it.”

Fitzjames was still muttering. “Firs Sam. Sam’l.”

“For Sam? First he’ll what?” Crozier snapped, a ghostly semblance of his usual self. “Why’re you calling for – John, I don’t know where – James, who is – ?”

Bridgens had already put together the pieces in his mind, and had dug out his own pocket-sized Scripture from his coat. “First Samuel. Which chapter, sir?”

“T–” stuttered Fitzjames. “Twa…”

“Two?” Crozier’s eyes were manic. “Twelve? Twenty? Which is it, James?”

“Twenty,” Bridgens ventured softly into the sudden quiet, only broken by Captain Fitzjames’s shallow, labored breaths. “Is that the one, sir?”

“Oh.” And now that terrible light from before had entered Crozier’s face a second time. “John, he squeezed my fingers. That’s it. Has t’be it. We’ll read it, James. I’ll read every word myself, if you like.”

Reluctant to step closer and interrupt even for a moment, but unable to keep his feet fastened to the icy ground, Bridgens handed off the book to Captain Crozier, who took it and held it in one palm as one might guard a precious jewel. Curmudgeon or no, Papist or no, it was plain to see that there would be no repeat performance from the Book of Leviathan in this solemn moment.

Slowly, Captain Crozier brought the book down to Captain Fitzjames’s bed, balancing it between their hands before clearing his throat, and beginning to read.

_ “And David fled from Naioth in Ramah, and came and said before Jonathan, what have I done? what is mine iniquity? and what is my sin before thy father, that he seeketh my life? And he said unto him, God forbid; thou shalt not die: behold, my father will do nothing either great or small, but that he will shew it me: and why should my father hide this thing from me? it is not so. _

_ And David sware moreover, and said, thy father certainly knoweth that I have found grace in thine eyes; and he saith, let not Jonathan know this, lest he be grieved: but truly as the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, there is but a step between me and death.” _

An audible, choked gulp. Bridgens shut his eyes as Crozier continued.

_ “Then said Jonathan unto David, whatsoever thy soul desireth, I will even,” _ a small pause,  _ “even – do it for thee.” _

Though Captain Crozier continued to read, his normally-confident tenor strained over the words even as he spake of Saul and Bethlehem and servants. By the time he had got to what Bridgens was certain was the object of this particular reading, Captain Crozier could hardly force even letters from his throat, he was so affected.

_ “...And J – Jonathan caused David to swear ah – again, because he loved him: for he loved him as he loved h – his own s-soul.” _

A rasp from the bed. Bridgens swore in that moment he could see Captain Fitzjames sit infinitesimally straighter as he squeezed Crozier’s hands.

“Francis. ‘S’you. To me.”

A long, perilous pause.

_ “James.” _

And here, Captain Crozier, this once-snarling sea dog – the grizzled Arctic veteran who had held stoic and stubborn through each passing winter on the ice; through the untimely death of Sir John and the loss of his prized whiskey; through Carnivale and abandoning ship; through starvation and mutiny and the deaths of his finest men and fastest friends – he now bent his head to Captain Fitzjames’s concave chest and burst forth in raw, aching sobs. Both worn, freckled hands clutched desperately at Captain Fitzjames’s sweat-soaked form, still covered by tangled sheets.

For several minutes, Crozier wept so deeply and with such feeling that the sight alone sparked tears of sympathy in Bridgens’ eyes. Like watching Hyacinthus dying in Apollo’s arms. And Captain Fitzjames did not falter from such grief; he had attention only for his beloved. 

Stretching, he touched three fingertips to Crozier’s red-grey hair, reached the man’s right temple with only one finger, and stroked weak back-and-forth swipes across the ruddy skin. His other hand fell limp upon the blankets, barely brushing Crozier’s left shoulder.

“God wants you to live, Francis.” Fitzjames winced as he managed to move his hand another few millimeters and cupped Crozier’s cheek with four fingers. “Even without me.”

Turning his face away from such shocking intimacies, as more silent tears tracked pathways to his beard and froze directly to his cheeks and chin, Bridgens spotted additional movement outside, just beyond the flap of the tent. 

Dark curls and a bushy beard framing a pale, anxious face in the passageway. 

Goodsir. 

From this light, although Bridgens could not quite tell, it appeared that the doctor was himself weeping. His eyes were squeezed closed, one hand covered his mouth, and he was stooped forward in a way that told Bridgens no other officers nor Marines were nearby.

A halting cough by the sickbed, followed by a barely-audible gasp, was soon coupled with a louder, messy sniveling noise. Seconds later, very tremulously, Captain Crozier sat up and began to read again, in a tone barely above a whisper.

_ “Then Jonathan said to – to David, tomorrow is the new moon: and thou shalt be m – missed, because thy seat will be – will be empty…” _

Entering the tent at last, Goodsir did not speak, simply came to stand next to Bridgens and pressed a small, unmarked vial into his right hand. Lifting this up to his line of sight, Bridgens did not even need to ask what it might be. He recognized the stopper. 

Peruvian Wine of Coca.

Though the surgeon’s sacred oath prevented him from administering such aid to a dying man, nothing in Bridgens’ experience barred him likewise. Nor, for that matter, did such conventions bar Captain Crozier from easing his beloved’s further suffering.

It had been three days since Captain Fitzjames had collapsed in his harness in the middle of hauling the whaleboats across gravel. Three long, difficult days, in which he had endured incredible pain, all in the name of perseverance.

_ “And as touching the matter which thou and I have spoken of, behold, the Lord be between thee and me for ever.” _

Here, Bridgens felt it might be safe to glance back at the  _ Erebus _ Captain’s sickbed; when he did so, he met Crozier’s blinking, reddened eyes for a brief moment, although the Captain did not hold his gaze for long, simply flicked his attention back to Captain Fitzjames, and continued reading.

Almost as one, Goodsir and Bridgens saw their opportunity, and tended to the remaining necessities without a word. 

Goodsir checked the man’s pulse, breathing, and other vitals, while Bridgens poured a little more water into a tin cup, replaced the now-heavy, humid cloth on Captain Fitzjames’s brow with a fresh cool one, and set the small vial onto the bed, next to one corner of the Good Book. Crozier clearly observed this, and reached out to touch the steward’s hand just before Bridgens walked away. 

As did someone else: two fingers brushed against Bridgens’ trouser leg. 

“Thank you,” came a low, weak rasp from the bed.

Bridgens turned, saw Fitzjames squinting first at him. His hand trembled against Bridgens’ knee, whilst his breathing had increased in speed, and each shallow gasp seemed to take a great more effort than before.

“The muscle spasms have started,” was all the surgeon said, each word clipped. He did not look at any of them. “Someone will need to help him swallow.”

“Yes,” hissed Fitzjames. “Yes. Help.”

Instructions made, Goodsir departed without another word.

Crozier did not waste time. “Leave us, Mister Bridgens.”

_ Of course. Of course.  _ They should be alone, here at the end.

“‘Twas an honor to serve with you, sir,” was all he managed to say to Captain Fitzjames. “You’re a good man.”

While he walked away, as foolishly if he were Orpheus indulging in a single moment of weakness at the edge of the underworld, Bridgens paused at the entrance to the tent and turned back for a moment. 

Barely illuminated by the lamp, the two captains were bent toward each other, both hands clasped tightly, faces centimeters apart.

Crozier’s hunched frame shook visibly as he completed the verse he’d been reading before, seeming almost to recite it from memory as he stared down at Fitzjames.  _ “D - David arose out of a place toward the s - south, and fell on his face to the ground, and bowed himself three times: and they – they k – kissed one another, and wept one w - with another.” _

Panting harshly, Captain Fitzjames was gasping phrases Bridgens could not decipher from this distance. His eyes were locked on Crozier’s. For a fleeting moment, no-one else in the world existed but the two of them as the  _ Terror  _ Captain leaned forward and pressed a single soft, chaste kiss to his second’s cracked and bloodless lips. One hand caressed over the  _ Erebus  _ Captain’s tangled hair, obscene in such sweet tenderness.

“Yes, James. Always.”

With a gulping shudder, Fitzjames’s body suddenly went rigid.

As Crozier pulled away and unstoppered the last vial, Bridgens found his feet at last, striding out past the two rows of Holland tents and toward the nearest cliffs, all with a familiar, shuffling gait stumbling closely behind.

“John? Is it all right? Is Captain Fitzjames – ?”

Peglar’s voice, quavering and uncertain.

Bridgens did not think, simply reacted. Without saying a word, as fresh tears spilled down his cheeks and froze in their tracks, he turned on his heel, rushed back to Peglar and clasped his lover in a tight, almost desperate, embrace.

“No.” He bit the inside of his cheek to suppress a whimper. “He’s not.”

A shocked, small gasp. Two hands flexed weakly against his back. 

“Oh, John.”

At last, Bridgens allowed himself to grieve for a beautiful man, his faithful and good Captain, whose virtues were now lost to the polar winds. Flashes of the ships and happier times mixed together in his mind with the darkness of the last few days.

_ Enjoying Plato or Catullus or Virgil by the light of a single oil lamp while he waited for the Captain to retire for the evening.  _

_ The calm, easy atmosphere of performing duties in the early hours, when the Captain was unusually quiet or reflective in ways he did not often show to the other men.  _ Bridgens, do you dream of the impossible?  _ or _ Sometimes I envy Ajax his surety  _ or _ What is the saying in the Poetics: know thyself what ‘tis to love?  

_ One night in particular when Captain Crozier arrived in haste – surprising many an Erebite save John – and yet cut short his sudden visit after a series of loud thumping noises and a barrage of vocal Irish swearing echoed out from Captain Fitzjames’s berth, not minutes after he had let himself inside.  _

_ Although Bridgens had expected cursing, this event had been so jarring and notable a disruption that Bridgens had actually stopped reading and glanced up in alarm at Captain Fitzjames’s closed door.  _ What on earth just happened?

Fucking hell, James! Don’t stay away _ – more muffled words he could not catch; the shrieking creak of wooden joists and thumping footsteps as someone moved around or over the berth in haste –  _ smile at me.

_ Seconds later, out in the hold, Bridgens had glimpsed the real truth, so plain to see yet vast and unknown to its central players. The  _ Terror  _ Captain’s face had blazed ruddy with a mixture of temper and shock and perhaps even shame as his own discarded waistcoat hit him in the back of one calf. And the next morning, there had been a new light in Captain Fitzjames’s eyes as Bridgens shaved and dressed him for the day.  _ Well, if even Francis demands I rise above my own misery, then I suppose it has gone on far too long.

It had been a rare delight to find his Captains’ tempestuous battles of will were not founded in issues of class or country or pastimes, and instead caused as each man fruitlessly wrestled against his Horatian nature. It became rarer still when the Captains found themselves unable or unwilling to stem the tides of genuine admiration, or passion, or love between them. And genuine love they had shared, truly, a boundless love unspooling soul to soul, a rare union of truth and beauty in such a savage place. 

_ Dipping a flannel in a pan of scented oil, carefully washing Captain Fitzjames’s scarred, starvation-ravaged body.  _ What a silly fool you must think me, Bridgens. I do not claim to know if Francis will even return such affections.

_ Pausing at the small of Fitzjames’s back.  _ I think he will try, sir.

Now James Fitzjames was dead, unspared even this last balm of comfort, and Francis Crozier would likely never share such love like theirs again in this lifetime.

Perhaps none of them would.

He considered the rest of First Samuel in his mind as Harry held him close, trying not to notice how unsteady Peglar had now become on his feet, or how fragile-thin his bony frame felt when enfolded into John’s embrace.

_ And Jonathan said to David, go in peace, forasmuch as we have sworn both of us in the name of the Lord, saying, the Lord be between me and thee, and between my seed and thy seed for ever. And he arose and departed: and Jonathan went into the city. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *crying sound*
> 
> The reading from 1 Samuel is chapter 20, and the verses about Jonathan loving David as his own soul are v. 17 - 23. Also, if you read the book and get to the scene where Fitzjames dies, oh, holy shit. That poor dude gets put through the wringer. BRB, going to weep forever about this and about Francis' tending to him.
> 
> "Sometimes I envy Ajax his surety" refers to Sophocles' [The Ajax](https://books.google.com/books?id=q-9tGsz78KMC&pg=PA50&dq=proving+yourself+greek+literature&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiZs5rhu4rdAhUjnq0KHeVJDp8Q6AEIKTAA#v=onepage&q=proving%20yourself%20greek%20literature&f=false), mainly about men - mostly illegitimate sons - trying to prove themselves compared to their fathers.
> 
> "What is the saying in the Poetics: know thyself what ‘tis to love?" From a [collection of essays](https://books.google.com/books?id=GncgOr48HGIC&pg=PA319&lpg=PA319&dq=know+thyself+virgil&source=bl&ots=8rvA2kYvXf&sig=tYrmosAInRDpP4sns8ts9eGoMj8&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiH9_2Uu4rdAhVMR6wKHVgGAc0Q6AEwDXoECAUQAQ#v=onepage&q=know%20thyself%20virgil&f=false) on Virgil's Georgics and an essay on Cato.
> 
> A rare union of truth and beauty is a quiet nod to [Plato's Symposium and the concept of platonic love.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symposium_\(Plato\)#cite_ref-Translation_by_W._Hamilton_22-7)


End file.
